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TEST DRIVE ∞ May 2025
Test Drive ∞ May 2025
The First Collision
The Diadem is an invite-only panfandom game set in a retro-futuristic world where uprooted souls find themselves deep within an eerie wasteland of roads and highways frequently assailed by cosmic storms. Three united strongholds keep the population. Its capital is Panorama, a large metropolis at the planet's center.
Soon, you realize you aren't alone. Calling themselves fluxdrifts, the "locals" have similar stories to you, either for themselves or their ancestry. You speak to an old woman who claims she hailed from another star. You meet a young man who says his great-great-grandfather knew a strange language everybody spoke "back home." As you explore, you stumble across a coin you recognize or your sister's locket. How did it get here? What does this mean? That's for you to discover.
But first, you need to find a ride.
Soon, you realize you aren't alone. Calling themselves fluxdrifts, the "locals" have similar stories to you, either for themselves or their ancestry. You speak to an old woman who claims she hailed from another star. You meet a young man who says his great-great-grandfather knew a strange language everybody spoke "back home." As you explore, you stumble across a coin you recognize or your sister's locket. How did it get here? What does this mean? That's for you to discover.
But first, you need to find a ride.
No invites needed to play on the TDM. Everyone's welcome! Use the Invite Request thread below to request an invite from another player.
∞ Summary ∞
IC-wise, arrivals are scattered throughout the month. Events described on the TDM are also ongoing throughout the month. If you'd rather jump right into the action, you're free to begin in media res with your character having already been on the planet for several days.
Post-impact, characters will wake up in a med tent by the Scrapyard. From there, they must accept a vehicle on loan and make the 2-hour drive to the nearest city, Panorama. If they refuse the car because they don't want the loan, they'll be in debt for medical bills instead...so just take the car. It'll come in handy.
Some things to keep in mind when bringing in your character:
TDM threads can be canon if characters are accepted. Top-levels made to the TDM should be open to all.
Post-impact, characters will wake up in a med tent by the Scrapyard. From there, they must accept a vehicle on loan and make the 2-hour drive to the nearest city, Panorama. If they refuse the car because they don't want the loan, they'll be in debt for medical bills instead...so just take the car. It'll come in handy.
Some things to keep in mind when bringing in your character:
- Pick an injury. At minimum, they got knocked out; at most, whatever they can recover from. Medicine is decently advanced so they'll heal faster if not painlessly.
- Decide items kept. Reasonable items on their person only: photos, keys, clothes, costumes. No pets or animal companions. Wildly out-of-place tech and personal cell phones will be damaged beyond repair.
- Select a weapon. Do this only if eligible. Guidelines about weapons and powers are on the FAQ.
- Choose a vehicle. Decide whether your character gets 2-3 options or if they're stuck with something they hate. Players can pick directly from our collection or source their own images. Anything under a similar aesthetic will work. If your character needs accommodations for driving, they can have them. Ask us for details.
- Get a phone. Characters have to obtain a phone (and a SIM card) themselves. If they've got one from home, it's damaged beyond repair. Phones are cheap. It'll only take a couple of weeks to afford one. You need to know the number before you text or call anyone. Read about phones and the Forum before you hop on it.
TDM threads can be canon if characters are accepted. Top-levels made to the TDM should be open to all.
Fluxdrift
Arrival & Introduction
Date: Throughout May
You've tumbled over a cliff. You were fighting for your life. You're on the cusp of death. You slipped in the shower. Whatever the catalyst, you struggle to cling to consciousness. As darkness overtakes you, a swirling vortex warps light and shadow in a way that defies all physics. A dark wail etches into your very bones. You couldn't describe it if you tried. You can barely comprehend what it is.
Then you open your eyes.
Through the figure's mask ©, you swear the face is grinning down at you. The tent you're in smells of antiseptic, and scratchy blankets line your cot. Injuries you've sustained have been bandaged. In the corner, you spot a MedBot that's fixed you up. Depending on the extent of your injuries, the doctor on duty might give you some painkillers before you go. Thankfully, your belongings are by the exit. Sorry if anything's damaged. Your landing was pretty rough.
You follow the figure outside. They are Yom Crook, here to lend a hand to fellow fluxdrifts like yourself. Their car's parked beside them. Actually, there are lots of cars around, but Yom Crook's stands out with its painted shark mouth. They explain they found you, unconscious, in a diffusion zone and brought you here. The nearest city is a 2-hour drive northeast. Forget about walking. You'll never make it. Also, you owe the doctor a lot of money for patching you up. But you're in luck: they've got some wheels for you and if you accept the vehicle on loan, Yom Crook will cover your medical bills. That's a good deal, right? It's not the shiniest car or motorcycle, but it'll do. If fortune favors, you'll get to choose between two or three options. Plus, if you need accommodations to drive—like adjustments to your seat height or modified controls—you'll receive all that for free.
Take the vehicle. (And the loan.) Yom Crook assures you that you'll have six months before collectors come around. Any time you're ready to pay a part of it down, return here to the Scrapyard. You'll get a receipt and everything. Paying off the loan in six months isn't impossible, but it will take a lot of work. Just don't get too lax. There's a good chance you'll be juggling multiple loans as you try to get by.
You either know how to drive, or you'll have a bare-bones manual to get you started. Road rules are more a suggestion than enforced, so just hit the pedal and go. The car has some basic features. The built-in compass will help you navigate.
Through the figure's mask ©, you swear the face is grinning down at you. The tent you're in smells of antiseptic, and scratchy blankets line your cot. Injuries you've sustained have been bandaged. In the corner, you spot a MedBot that's fixed you up. Depending on the extent of your injuries, the doctor on duty might give you some painkillers before you go. Thankfully, your belongings are by the exit. Sorry if anything's damaged. Your landing was pretty rough.
You follow the figure outside. They are Yom Crook, here to lend a hand to fellow fluxdrifts like yourself. Their car's parked beside them. Actually, there are lots of cars around, but Yom Crook's stands out with its painted shark mouth. They explain they found you, unconscious, in a diffusion zone and brought you here. The nearest city is a 2-hour drive northeast. Forget about walking. You'll never make it. Also, you owe the doctor a lot of money for patching you up. But you're in luck: they've got some wheels for you and if you accept the vehicle on loan, Yom Crook will cover your medical bills. That's a good deal, right? It's not the shiniest car or motorcycle, but it'll do. If fortune favors, you'll get to choose between two or three options. Plus, if you need accommodations to drive—like adjustments to your seat height or modified controls—you'll receive all that for free.
Take the vehicle. (And the loan.) Yom Crook assures you that you'll have six months before collectors come around. Any time you're ready to pay a part of it down, return here to the Scrapyard. You'll get a receipt and everything. Paying off the loan in six months isn't impossible, but it will take a lot of work. Just don't get too lax. There's a good chance you'll be juggling multiple loans as you try to get by.
You either know how to drive, or you'll have a bare-bones manual to get you started. Road rules are more a suggestion than enforced, so just hit the pedal and go. The car has some basic features. The built-in compass will help you navigate.
OPTIONAL PROMPTS: a flat tire; a body on the road (is it a trap?); a fender bender
Panorama
Explore & Settle In
Conditions: Warm spring temperatures, light showers
After 2 hours on the road, you find civilization. The largest of the strongholds, Panorama is where the economy thrives. Massive power plants glowing red make it visible from a distance. The city is divided into three districts. For now, you can access the Pavilion and the Blocks. Don't worry about the Sanctum; they're not letting you in.
You only need to know two things about Panorama: 1) it's big, the size of a modern metropolis, and you'll need your car to get around; 2) anything goes as long as you don't pick a fight with the wrong person. Street smarts will get you far. Despite its geographical size, the population isn't huge. With roughly a million people in a city designed for over twice that number, Panorama is far from deserted, but nor is it overcrowded. It's a good thing. Resources are limited as it is.
You only need to know two things about Panorama: 1) it's big, the size of a modern metropolis, and you'll need your car to get around; 2) anything goes as long as you don't pick a fight with the wrong person. Street smarts will get you far. Despite its geographical size, the population isn't huge. With roughly a million people in a city designed for over twice that number, Panorama is far from deserted, but nor is it overcrowded. It's a good thing. Resources are limited as it is.
The Pavilion: Free Samples
Like any large city, Panorama features a couple of supermarkets. The stock's not as consistent as a proper supermarket. On occasion, shelves can remain cleaned out for a week or two. Regardless, the long tradition of free samples remains. If you're not already shopping, you'll notice the crowded parking lot and clusters of lines inside.
Try samples, push through the crowds as you shop, or give yourself a five-finger discount. If you're cautious, you can pocket a few small items without consequences. The Pavillion doesn't have the infrastructure for surveillance; unless someone sees you, you won't be caught. Steal from the store or pilfer someone's wallet. Maybe you even make a new friend if you bump into another fluxdrift. Or, start a fight with somebody who cut you off in the cheese line. Don't make too much of a ruckus, or you'll be thrown out.
As you look around, you'll see posters advertising temporary positions for the cash register or graveyard shifts in the warehouse. Seems they might've lost several employees recently (how'd that happen?), which is good for you! It's just a 6-week position, but it'll get you on your feet. The city has temporary positions like this all over. Permanent ones are harder to come by when you're new.
Try samples, push through the crowds as you shop, or give yourself a five-finger discount. If you're cautious, you can pocket a few small items without consequences. The Pavillion doesn't have the infrastructure for surveillance; unless someone sees you, you won't be caught. Steal from the store or pilfer someone's wallet. Maybe you even make a new friend if you bump into another fluxdrift. Or, start a fight with somebody who cut you off in the cheese line. Don't make too much of a ruckus, or you'll be thrown out.
As you look around, you'll see posters advertising temporary positions for the cash register or graveyard shifts in the warehouse. Seems they might've lost several employees recently (how'd that happen?), which is good for you! It's just a 6-week position, but it'll get you on your feet. The city has temporary positions like this all over. Permanent ones are harder to come by when you're new.
Samples include: steamed cabbage dumplings, synthetic cherry juice, cheddar cheese, and chocolate-covered alien eggs (it's crunchy and weirdly tasty). They're served in the usual throwaway paper cups with little toothpicks.
The Blocks: Power Outage
Power's finicky in Panorama, especially in the Blocks. Saint Margery's Hospital, located in the same area, has priority for power so the first to go are the motels. Maybe you've been in your room for a couple of weeks, maybe you just got here—and by the way, every motel desk is happy to put the fee on your tab if you don't have the money upfront—but all the motels on the east side are in a blackout, leaving only the west side motels up and running.
What do you do? You have three choices:
What do you do? You have three choices:
- Risk leaving your room and head to the other side where there's power. Knock on some doors and negotiate with another to share the room. They might shut the door in your face, ask for a favor in return, or be nice enough to help you with no strings attached. There's no guarantee your unattended room will be untouched, though, and you'll be on the hook for any damages an intruder causes.
- Sit in the dark and deal. It's not the worst idea, but the TV's down, the vending machines are powered down, and with the entire place plunged into darkness, you risk getting robbed. If you struggle with defending yourself, you might want to find some trustworthy company. You can also sneak out of there and let them take your leftover pizza. It's not like you've got a ton of valuables, right? Plus, clobbering someone in the face with a frying pan sounds great until you realize you've gotta do something with the body. And what if this person's got a friend waiting?
- Get in your car and drive (or grab a friend for a road trip). If you scroll the Forum, you might notice reports on diffusion zones southward. Besides, these motels are hardly your forever home. The city can only provide so much. Why not go for a ride and see what you can find out there?
OPTIONAL PROMPTS: clean up on aisle 3 (what is that goo?); a knock at your door but no one's there; you hear screaming or a commotion down the hall
The Fringes
Quad 3: Lockdown
Conditions: Stormy, with flooding roads
Felix Bjurstrom
> Date: 125-05-17
> Time: 02:15:57
> Emergency road lights have been reported in Quadrant 3! Please, can someone go see what's there? When last we chasers investigated emergency lights, a whole truck filled with sour candy had tipped over. Our stores were stocked for weeks! Oh, be careful - reception looks bad in that zone.
> Date: 125-05-17
> Time: 02:15:57
> Emergency road lights have been reported in Quadrant 3! Please, can someone go see what's there? When last we chasers investigated emergency lights, a whole truck filled with sour candy had tipped over. Our stores were stocked for weeks! Oh, be careful - reception looks bad in that zone.
Through the open windows, a computer awakens and displays a cheerful smile. The lights inside switch on.
Pick your scenario role below. Your thread partner doesn't need to take the opposite role! They can join you in the same scenario (i.e. trapped together). Players are also free to create a generic NPC for the other side to facilitate the thread.
After characters escape, they'll find one bottle of antibiotics in their pocket or car, whether they remember taking it or not.
After characters escape, they'll find one bottle of antibiotics in their pocket or car, whether they remember taking it or not.
A: Sealed In
As you peer through the windows, you see crates of medicine floating around. Antibiotics in the diadem are valuable. Hospitals and doctors are always buying. You can keep it for yourself or make a quick buck. Or maybe you're compelled to help somebody back in the city who's in need. Whatever the reason, you decide to take the risk and step inside.
Water splashes around your ankles. The lock buzzes behind you. If you try to break the windows, you discover they're unnaturally resistant to shattering. With the whole place locked tight, the water begins to churn. Then the computer lights up again.
Warning, it flashes in large, bold text. Quarantine in progress. Release code required for exit.
- To find the code, you'll have to search. Duck under the water, go through sopping envelopes and sticky notes or pick the locks on the filing cabinets and desk drawers. You can also try hacking the computers. Use your computer knowledge or fall back on the age-old trick of seeing who wrote down their password.
- The files, notepads, and emails start innocuous, but as you look through them, disturbing phrases jump out at you—a dark thought you've had or a cruel taunt from someone in your past. The longer you're fixed on the terrible words, the higher the water begins to rise. Only another can break you out of your trance.
- With the rising water comes fear. And the more you're afraid, the more the water also rises. You begin to see faces in the water, bobbing like balloon heads. Do you recognize them? If you move to take a closer look, they will sink back beneath the surface as if never there.
- If you manage to swallow your panic, you can eventually find a triple-laminated binder with the release code and instructions. Bad news: you need someone on the outside to punch in the 6 strange symbols in order. The instructions explain that the code panel is located at the back of the building.
B: Set Free
As you peer through the windows, you see not just the crates of medicine but someone trapped inside. They look like they might be in trouble, and from your vantage point, you notice that the water is bubbling strangely. It's definitely not normal rainwater. As you watch, the water rises unnaturally, stopping and starting. It's as if the water level is responding to an external stimulus.
- The glass is soundproof. You can't hear what the person inside is saying, so you'll have to communicate with each other another way. Try charades, typing on your phone, or whatever you think of. Eventually, you determine that they're stuck and that you need to enter some sort of code onto a pad located—according to your trapped partner—at the back of the building.
- Around the back, shadows swallow your surroundings. The panel must be pried open, but a slippery substance makes it hard to get a good grip. Each time the substance touches you, you grow uneasy. You swear you see eyes watching you, though when you turn around, nothing's there.
- You can't seem to keep the instructions in your mind. And those symbols...they burn into your retinas. Through them, you glimpse an incomprehensibly massive figure unfurling in the darkness, pulsing as if in a deep sleep. When you snap back to reality, you realize you've injured yourself, slicing your hand on a sharp edge or a bruise you can't remember getting.
- Once you manage to release the doors, the water inside the office drains upward into the sky as though sucked out by a giant hose. The darkness spreads. Get out of there fast before the shadows drag you or your partner into the void.
Main Navigation ::: ⇅
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no subject
Yeah, he gets it, keypad, passcode, thumbs up, sure — except there's just one problem. )
There's no-
( He starts; stops, visibly frustrated — only to start quickly groping around in his pockets for his cellphone. There's no service here, but there's a god damn notes app.
He taps a message quickly on the touch screen, and then presses the display up against the glass by Clint's face. )
There is no keypad here
( Which is a message he probably could've spared them both, because he reads in tandem with Clint, his eyes tracking over the binder page, past the symbols, to the instructions beyond them.
Around back. His face twists in incredulity; what kind of god damn sense does it make to put the security code box around back behind the building?
The phone slides away from the glass for a second message quickly tapped out and held up for only a moment. )
Sit tight
( Followed by the snap and flash of the phone camera. No way in hell was he gonna remember those symbols or those instructions without a little something, and he can't exactly write the shit down on sodden clumps of deteriorating legal pad paper.
In any case, that's all Clint gets before his maybe-savior is completely gone from the building again, abandoning him to sternum-deep waters.
That's when the bodies begin to float to the surface. )
no subject
It's not a way he'd want to die. He'll take that fall, thanks. Nice and simple and easy and quick. It's not like abandoned he knows what's let her go on the other side of death undeserving in a place like this. He's alonebloodyfailureemptyworthlessguiltyafraid shut up shut up shut the fuck UP--
He is not going to die here, god damn it. If his new friend doesn't get him out, he'll get himself out. He'll figure it out, even if he has to tread water.
A body that was definitely not here when he started bobs to the surface, and he huffs out a sputtering scoff and ignores it.] Yeah yeah, what's next, the walls are gonna start bleeding?
[He has to more float and swim to get around the office as it fills. Errant pages float toward him, with notes of bleeding ink talking about a very specific number of dead agents, suggesting how freedom from choice is the sweetest kind of freedom, mentioning a certain date when his life as he knew it ended, indicating how if he was any good at keeping the team together then maybe the team wouldn't have disbanded and broken and splintered and shattered, and hey, hey guess what else, maybe if he hadn't failed to retire again, maybe if the team had been together, maybe if that second family of his that was his responsibility hadn't had a falling out, maybe they could have prevented--
Thankfully he's the only one that can hear his own scream of frustration.
He ignores the bodies that may or may not be there, because he knows they aren't there but maybe like the water they simply are, takes a deep breath, and dives. If he can find where it's all coming from, then he can buy himself more time. He has time. He can get more of it. Just ignore all the pain. He's gotten good at that.
Or he pretends he has.]
no subject
When he looks up, the shadows converge; they coalesce; they become something other. They are a shape, or they're taking shape, something massive, something unnatural, something--
Something he can't shoot, so why the hell is he bothering to stare at it? He rips his eyes away from it, barking out a sharp sound as his fingernails dig into the panel again to pry it open through sheer brute force and determination. By the time he finishes punching in the symbols, he can feel the shadows breathing on him, licking up the back of his neck like ghosts.
This place. There is something wrong with this place. He doesn't know what it is, but god damn it, he knows people weren't meant to come here. Is this what a diffusion zone is? A stretching swath of land tainted by something, radiating other and threatening to consume pieces of you until you're dead or hollow?
The door doesn't wanna open when he rounds the building again, so he kicks it open hard enough for it to swing fast and bang against the wall beside it. Irritation laces his posture, but his aim is steady as he takes the corners with military care, all the way back to that sealed office where some stranger's depending on him to keep him from fucking drowning. Water fills the entire room, floor to ceiling. Driblets of it seep from seams that should not be able to hold back so much pressure. Frank doesn't stop to appreciate it.
He braces himself, gets into position, and yanks the door open.
Thousands of gallons of brackish water throws itself out of the room like a fire hose, like a tidal wave, crashing down and flooding the carpet on the outside as all of it releases itself out into empty air, draining the room rapidly. His eyes furiously scan what they can make of the flurry of liquid movement, searching for a person-shape, a body among all the floating debris rushing out with it. )
no subject
He fights for his life out of reflex and instinct, until suddenly there are no more air pockets, and there is no escape, and his newfound friend hasn't rescued him, and his chest burns, his lungs burn, his blood burns, and then--
When the water rushes out, faces flash by. Maybe whole bodies, blink and then gone, it's hard to keep track, but faces seem distinct for fractions of seconds before being whisked away. None of them are Clint, until his very real and very limp body gets carried out in the ensuing wave.]
no subject
Not like he didn't know this was a possibility, he'd just been hoping that at the rate the water was rising, he'd have more than enough time to get around back and punch the code; more than enough time for that guy to get to the door and shove it open to release the plug. Whatever it was that stole his attention, graced an old fear reflex that he rarely feels, it must've taken longer than he thought. What happened to those seconds in his mind? Did they slip? Stutter out of existence?
It doesn't matter now.
What matters is hauling that limp body by two fists tangled in the fabric of his shirt, mostly out of the mire to the nearest surface not too submerged to begin chest compressions. He's had training. He knows the right way to do it. Knows the rhythm. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight- and then tipping the guy's chin back, parting his mouth, sealing his own over it without hesitation and forcing air into those lungs. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-, another assisted breath, come on, man.. One-two-three-)
no subject
And maybe he doesn't die, because someone or something doesn't ever allow him to die, or maybe he doesn't because he's already dead so what happens when you die twice, y'know? Or maybe he does die, for a few seconds. It's hard to tell.
What he does know is that, whether it was an image of the afterlife, his life flashing before his eyes, or the last few firing neurons of his brain wildly hallucinating from lack of oxygen, he thinks he is home, warm, the smell of baked goods wafting in the air. There's a kid sitting on his knee, and teenagers on either side of him, and the most beautiful woman he's ever met is sitting across from him, arms outstretched across the table, her capable hands in his. The sun is bright, the windows are thrown open to let in the breeze, and everything is perfect.
Everything is perfect.
And then he's choking.
The scene is washed away by water, a flood of dark water, cold and cold and cold and burning. He's choking and drowning but someone's trying to drag him ashore. There's air, somewhere. He can feel it try to push through. And a pressure in his chest pushing the water out. He tries to cough, but it's more of a convulsion, water burning out of his lungs and bubbling out of his mouth. Tries to gasp, chokes, coughs, gags out more water. But he can feel it, the air trying to displace the rest, and he gasps and sputters and gags on it, desperate. He can barely see. But he's alive. He's alive. Why the fuck is he alive? A hand reaches out to grab hold of the form over him, grip strong in spite of the (near?) death experience.
Words are gonna have to wait a bit.]
no subject
He just grips that reaching arm back and uses it to haul the guy up, a little sideways, so he can cough out water and bile and whatever else without promptly sucking it back down his own windpipe again. Wouldn't do them any good if he immediately pulled a Hendrix the second his eyes fluttered open.
His free hand goes to help by thumping Clint firmly on the back two-three times, and then he's just steady, patient, reeling himself away a little to give the guy some room to breathe — to the tune of an absent, New York-lilted mutter. )
Yep, there it is. You're alright. Come on. Easy- easy...
no subject
Currently, the logical part of him really looks at the guy that saved him, and the face rings with some familiarity, sure, but--it's the vest that seals the deal.
He just got his ass rescued by the god damn Punisher.
Great, great, no, that's wonderful, really. Can he go back to the dying and being dead thing? That might be easier to swallow, gallons and gallons of water, than this fact.
There's no real getting good in this condition, and everything feels kind of weird and lopsided, and he feels...well, hell, he feels waterlogged in every sense of the word. But the water around them starts to change. The hallway starts to change. Something is changing in a way that doesn't feel like it's a good thing.
The water starts to rise, not in the way that it had in the office, but physically the water seems to suck out of the carpets and off the floor tiles like getting sucked up by a wetvac. There's a sensation in the air that's not quite ozone but almost like it, but darker, heavier. The water rains upward, splattering against the ceiling and making rivulets that try to find a way up further still as though gravity got reversed, but only for water. The heaviness feels like it's coming from inside of him. There's a darkness that feels darker than they should be creeping in from the shadows, and it isn't his vision going dim.
Somehow there's the impression of the end of the world, but even bigger and impossible to explain than that.
Every inch of him wants to get up and leave. He struggles, motions into the now empty (of water) office, throat rough and lungs hard pressed to get enough air to make something like words happen. "Meds," he coughs. Would any of it still be good after those boxes inevitably became waterlogged? Surely there are unharmed bottles they can still sell, because of course he'll share a profit with the guy that just brought him back from the brink.
Clint's probably not hauling much of anything, and even ass would be a lot to ask for right now.]
no subject
Military incursions, political corruption, gang violence, sure, all of that he's as familiar with as the back of his own hand. The other things that began creeping into their world years back? The ones the government still tries like hell to keep from the general population? Yeah, he's got no face-time with any of that shit.
So when Clint coughs out meds like he expects them to stick around for even a second longer, Frank barks out a short, derisive laugh and just stands, hauling the guy up to his feet as he goes. )
You gotta be kiddin' me, are you outta your god damn mind? Let's go.
( Combined with a half-hearted effort at bodily dragging Clint along with him. If he wants to stick around and die to whatever this is, Frank's not gonna be the one to interrupt his suicide attempt — but he's also not hanging around watching Cthulhu eat the fucking building because there's a twenty percent chance something in that waterlogged sludge pile is still edible to humans after floating in this horrifying soup for several minutes. Fuck that. )
no subject
No idea. He's up, he's up, he's coming, even if he still has to be half-dragged about it for how shaky his legs feel. Sturdy enough to be up and moving, but still kinda fucked.
The rain falls in the right direction once outside. It's still a torrential downpour, but Clint feels like that means whatever's going on inside is only confined to the inside. Still, a little distance never hurt nobody, in case he's fucking wrong about that. He stumbles back to his car, the floor flooded from the water splashing over the edges of the tarp. But he's not gonna drown in it, so. Beggars, choosers.]
no subject
The free air tastes better than the mildew from inside the building, and the front door bangs closed behind them as though a warning, a reminder that they're completely and utterly unwelcome inside.
He means to drag the guy to his van, but those legs find the strength to steer at last, and he lets Clint lead the charge, only loosening his hold when it's clear Clint's stable enough to shove himself under that tarp without biting it.
Only half of Frank's body ducks in after him, his side pressed against cold, wet metal, seeking out a momentary reprieve from all the wet trying to soak his face and blur his vision.
A god damn tarp.
He just un-drowned an Avenger and shoved him under his car-tarp. This place is fucking unbelievable, and he'd love to point that out, but instead, all he says at first is a flat: )
Nice ride. ( It's only half-sarcastic. And then: ) If you plan on stormin' back in to fight shadows with a bow and arrow, you're on your own.
( Just so they're clear — this rescue party ends at chronic stupidity. Everybody's gotta draw the line somewhere. )
no subject
The real answer is fuck no, but his answer is he's gotta be good enough, else...what, else he's getting put in another car with the Punisher? Guy did save his life. He's not afraid of a vigilante unless he wants to be the galaxy's biggest hypocrite.]
Just [he gasps, pretending like he didn't just actual-ass drown] drive.
[It's what he means to do. Until it feels safe enough to stop. Or until the rain lightens up. Or until his body can't take it. He wants his new friend-savior to get the fuck out of dodge before the creeping more-than-just-darkness consumes him, too. Just drive.]
no subject
If the guy wants to drive, Frank's not his babysitter. )
Suit yourself.
( Come the skeptical murmur, and with one last fleeting, assessing look, he peels himself out of Clint's car-tarp and hustles across the lot to his own ride.
The Punisher drives a grey-silver-tan-beige minivan. It's a fucking Chrysler Voyager circa 2002, the kind with the DVD players in the back. That's what Frank Castle piles into, and when he pulls out, there's a flash of an extremely ironic coexist bumper sticker for Clint to follow if he decides to keep pace.
Frank neither waits for him, nor tries to outrun him. If he's gonna follow, more power to him. If he's gonna sit in that parking lot and debate the merits of recovering soggy pills from a haunted office building, that's his prerogative. Either way, Frank puts miles of distance between himself and that place before he finally pulls over in the neon sign-illuminated parking lot of an IHOW.
Apparently it's international waffles instead of pancakes in this dimension. Go figure. )
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No wait. Focus. Having air blowing around him (and water blowing out of his tarp cover) helps? He thinks? in that it's air and it reminds him to breathe even if every breath sucks actual ass to try and pull. Let him fucking die next time. Or don't, but damn.
When his vision swims, he focuses on the stupid bumper sticker and makes sure to follow that.
All the way to a waffle house that isn't actually one of those but a pancake place that is a waffle place. Alright. That's fine. The rain is lighter. It falls in the right direction. The shadows look appropriately shadowy.
He slumps in his seat looking like a drowned cat. Or hawk. In this case. Or maybe a fish out of water. Just give him a minute. Give him several minutes. Give him a couple days.]
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It was tempting to just throw the guy in the back of his van, let him sprawl out in the seats while Frank got them the hell outta dodge — but that's a surefire way to lose a car, if the diffiusion zone decides to swallow it whole. Not like he'd wanna come back and drop the guy off there later, either, so. It is what it is.
Time to make this waffle house a waffle home.
Two, three minutes after they park, Clint gets a gentle slap slap on the hood of his car. Wake up, buttercup. It's a long drive back to the Blocks, if that's where he's staying too — either way, sleeping in a car with the protection of only a fucking tarp in a world full of raiders is a stupid ass mistake to make, and apparently Frank's feeling obligated to the guy.
Call it him being an ambassador of New York, paying it forward for all the work fighting off that alien invasion that one time. New York always pays its debts. )
Hey. ( It's not a bark, but it is firm, sharp, something adjacent to an order. ) You want coffee or not?
( And then he strides off without waiting for an answer; he wants coffee after all that fucking bullshit. Whether he's drinking it alone doesn't matter. What matters is sitting somewhere safe, warm, and dry, and getting his collective shit together while he tries to wrap his head around what the fuck just happened. )
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Coffee. Hot and warmth and dry and inside and sitting. Resting. Right. Sure. Yeah. Just let him get up and climb out of his car which takes a hell of a lot more effort than it really should. Maybe he could call out for help, but he's determined to--to, what, make an asshole of himself? Hurt himself?
It can't be a pride thing; he already died in front of the guy.
He gets several steps toward the entrance of the offbrand IHOP (unless this is on brand?) before he tries to call out.] Hey- [And that alone takes the wet air out of him. Has to try and take a couple more breathes.] Help? [Please.
Whether he gets that help or not, a supporting arm to help him the rest of the way as the last dregs of adrenaline wears off, he does get to slide into a booth across from. This guy. Clint slumps. Again.]
Thanks.
[Guy deserves a lot more than a thanks, but it's a place to start.]
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Then comes the thanks, and Frank eyes him again for another long second before he answers: )
You're welcome.
( Simple as that. He was there, the guy needed help, Frank helped him. It's not that hero bullshit where you go out looking for somebody to save, that's not him, that's not what he was there for — but he's not about to leave somebody to up and god damn die when he could do something about it instead.
And it turns out it was a good call, too, considering who exactly it is he intervened for. Not that he gives a shit about the celebrity status, just that maybe the world might owe this asshole a favor or two for all the thankless shit he's done for it. Plus, it'd be a shame to let Hawkeye die when his namesake's used as a running joke between Scout Snipers during training. Nice shot, Hawkeye. Really suck the fun out of the joke if he turned up fucking dead.
The waitress swings by, and Frank takes the liberty of ordering their drinks for them with a relatively polite, vaguely charismatic, )
Two cups of coffee, please, sweetheart. Matter 'fact, just leave the pot. Thank you, ma'am.
( Sue him for making assumptions, but Clint looks like a drowned rat that could hardly wheeze out a full sentence right now. )
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He runs a hand back through his hair to paste it back some. For a bleary moment, he's back in the water, knelt with a weight of guilt in his chest, a glowing rock in his hand--
Don't even go there. There are floresent lights. There's the smell of greasy breakfast food and coffee. There's a squeaky, sticky seat under him. There's company.
He nods at said company. Or, down at his hand.] Bleeding.
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Shit-
( It's an absent mutter under his breath, and it's followed by grabbing a wad of napkins from the holder at the far side of the table. They're folded up and pressed against the wound, but it doesn't do much to erase the trail that wraps around the back of his hand and spreads between the webbing of his fingers.
This wound in that water's an infection waiting to happen. He's gonna need to clean it better when they get back to the Blocks, back to the motel room where he's got an IFAK waiting for him. Not much he can do about it here and now; he trusts the cleanliness of this bathroom in this grubby shithole oh the outskirts of a grubbier city about as much as he trusts the water he was just half-blasted with.
The waitress, to her credit, did not give it so much as a second glance. She must see people come in here beat all to shit all the time. )
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But there's something else. His hand brushes a bulge in a pocket that was not there before. His brows knit together, and he digs it out.
Well. He'll be damned. A bottle of antibiotics. That he does not remember pilfering from any of the crates before they all got flooded to shit.
This alone could fetch some money. Wouldn't be a complete and whole entire and complete fuckup of a mission. It isn't even waterlogged. Well--not the inside, anyway. And the outside's still just legible enough, though that probably won't last. He gives it a shake, hears the pills clatter around.
And then pops it open and sets one each in front of them, closes the bottle back up, and sets it in the middle of the table. Yeah yeah supposed to do a whole prescribed regiment and not fuck around with it lest it risks worse infections moving in or whatever, but beggars, choosers.]
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Huh.
Well. Go figure. He'd have taken a painkiller too, but this is better. The bottle goes back down onto the middle of the table, the pill gets popped in his mouth, and he takes the time to gesture his cup of coffee Clint's way in a silent thanks before he uses the near-scalding liquid to swallow the pill down.
Good lookin' out.
The weary, comfortable silence stretches through another few bolstering swallows of caffeine, until he finally breaks through it. )
So is the rest of your whole- squad here to fix this shit, or what?
( Yeah, hey, they're from the same place. The man's famous, he's bound to be used to getting recognized. More importantly, dimension-snatching random people seems like an Avengers-level problem.
Granted, last he heard the team broke up or something and now half of 'em are on the FBI's most wanted list, but. You know. Kind of a bigger picture to worry about here than whatever that whole deal was. )
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It's a companionable silence for a time before the inevitable happens, and his companion opens his mouth and addresses the elephant standing sopping wet in the room.
Always awkward to get recognized, but hey, it does happen. Not near as often as the Living Legend, the Tech Genius Billionaire, the Alien God, the Hulk, and the Hot Girl. Honestly, the only one that probably gets recognized less is Bruce being Bruce and not the big green, and now that he and Hulk have gotten their shit on straight, well...
As someone who made a living out of being a ghost, not being seen, the big brand recognition thing was never something he knew how to play off. But he's one of them. He's an Avenger. His face and name are known quantities. And he's known on sight by--what was this guy's name? God, he was everywhere on the news for a cycle, but Punisher was always pithier.
His voice is understandably rough and quiet and halting. He'd say he's survived worse, but he's never actually drowned before.]
Can't shoot your way out of this?
[Yes. He's going for snark. He's going for the smartass comment with the breath that he has. Like an idiot and an asshole. But a funny one, maybe.]
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Yeah, granted it's entirely possible he's only saying that because of the rifle Frank walked through the building sporting, but judging by that look on his face, dry and knowing and familiar, Frank's not gonna take the optimistic route here. For some reason it never occurred to him anybody in the big leagues would ever know his name, but god damn, their home base was in New York for a while, wasn't it? Not like his ass wasn't on the news, the radio, every other media outlet there for a hot minute — he listened to some of the broadcasts himself. Clint Barton probably owns a television. Probably listens to the radio, probably picks up a god damn newspaper once in a while.
Touché, asshole. )
Not for lack of trying.
( He returns dryly, shifting back in his seat and studying Clint with fresh new wariness. So, how's this gonna go down? If it were Captain Boyscout sitting across from him maybe he'd have a better idea — and not the one you'd think. Takes a soldier to know a soldier — especially one personally betrayed by their government and the military. It's the billionaire he'd worry about most.
Rando McBowstring with his lack of publicity's a harder read. Maybe the best way to gauge it is- )
You one of the ones that went rogue?
( War criminal, enemy of the state and all that? Because if so, he'll worry a little bit less about an impending, legally unfounded citizen's arrest. )
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Sure, maybe it's easy to think that way when he was one of the ones locked up in super-supermax. None of it feels like it matters all that much now. His eyebrows bob up as he takes another sip. Technically? Technically no. He was technically arrested, but his release was perfectly legally-enough negotiated.
Anything after the snap doesn't matter anymore, and far as he knows, nobody came knocking to chase after his ankle monitor being disabled.]
Was locked up in the Raft. If that's what you're asking.
[A sigh turns into a cleared throat a few times. He'll be tasting that brackish water for weeks, probably.]
Fell into this world same as you I imagine.
[So: no team falling in with him. Unintentional and random. Shit out of luck.]
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So.
Good.
All it gets from Frank is a single nod, and a slight softening of his shoulders as he goes back to draining his cup of coffee. He busies himself with topping up his own cup, then hitting Clint's too while he's at it. )
Wellp. I guess we're both shit outta luck, then.
( Cheers. )
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